


Life is Better With You

by benrumo



Series: Inquisitor Cesare Lavellan Desperately Tries Not to Ruin Everything [8]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Post-Endgame, Spoilers, Years Later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:49:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3947782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benrumo/pseuds/benrumo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been six years since Corypheus' defeat. Six years too since Dorian Pavus returned to Tevinter to fight for all that was worth saving. Now an opportunity has arrived for a small ambassadorial party to travel to Minrathos to take part in a series of trade discussions. It's not precisely the kind of event the Inquisitor should be attending, but as far as Cesare Lavellan is concerned what the Magisterium doesn't know won't hurt them. Besides, what's one more nameless elf in the slave capitol of the world?</p><p>(Works in series are not sequential, just same-universe.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Through the Gates

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want to post this until it was totally finished because I hate having that hanging pressure of "omg when are you going to finish this?!!?" coming at me. (Hence why I only write one-shots if I can help it.) But at this point I'm honestly not sure it's actually going to GET finished. But I still think there's a lot of good bits in here. It's just kind of a slice-of-life borderline-episodic anyway, so... I figure why the hell not post the bits I've been sitting on?
> 
> I'm not saying I'm NOT working on it. I'm just saying don't hold your breath.

Tevinter was as beautiful as it was hot, and it only became more so the closer you traveled to Minrathos. The forests were dense and humid. It rained so often you almost wished you were back in the Western Approach just so you could be reminded of what it felt like to be dry. Cullen had to warn the troops to keep their clothes and feet as dry as possible when they weren’t marching to avoid mold growing on them as surely as it did on everything else.

But for all of that, it was still beautiful. The forests were full of color, from rich greens that put your familiar forests to shame to colors you never imaged nature to possess. There were lyrium-blue birds and startlingly large flowers in shades more vibrant than a dragon’s hide. The giant insects were somewhat disturbing, particularly when you found them curled in your boots first thing in the morning, but even their angular beauty could not be denied.

Eventually, the forests (or jungles, as Cullen informed you they were more appropriately called in the common tongue) give way to a more costal clime and you finally know Minrathos is close. That is, unfortunately, as much a blessing as it is a curse.

You give up your mount and your place beside Cullen for the secrecy of one of the supply wagons. Cullen has few of his most trusted men, an elf from Orlais named Noel and another from the Imperium called Evres, both slumming it alongside you to act as your personal guard. Can’t have it appear as if any proper human soldiers care for the life of an elf working the supply chain.

Unlike those of your guard, your disguise requires more than a false sense of modesty and feigned familiarity with servitude. Your Vallaslin would draw too much attention in a nation avoided by all sane Dalish clans, particularly the smaller ones who would seem like nothing more than a herd of defenseless halla to a sizeable band of slavers. From the moment Minrathos peaks black on the horizon, your morning routine must include caking your face with a salve carefully mixed to match the color of your skin.

_How proudly you wear the marks of a slave._

The words still have teeth, even years after the destruction of the mouth which spoke them. Corypheus was a fool, you remind yourself. A fool who couldn’t adapt to the march of time. As much of a fool as Abelas. What was does not determine what is. You drive down the dual humiliation repeating those words to yourself. This is no submission. It is a deception, one which will with luck reap great rewards. The ancients may have marked their slaves, but that practice died with the fall of Arlathan. You are no slave. You are a willing servant to Sylaise. You wear her mark proudly. You are not hiding yourself from her, you are hiding her from the unworthy gaze of humanity, just like every hunter does when sent out into hostile human territory.

You are delayed (or Cullen, you should say, is delayed, as he is the commanding officer) for far longer than you find comfortable at the grand gates of the city. This meeting really would have been better left for another six months’ time, a year even. Tensions between Tevinter and the southern nations have eased somewhat in light of the Circle and Chantry reforms. Whispers have circulated about the possibility of a unified Thedas, finally brought back under the rule of a single Divine. They’re only whispers, of course, but you suspect you know their source. You wonder if the Divine is disappointed at how easily her opponents fall for such blatant flattery or if she’s finding more than enough challenge with the Game played within the Chantry.

Tevinter is openly pleased by the Circle reforms, particularly the rumor which has artfully never been confirmed nor denied by official sources that Tevinter itself acts as a model for the reformed south. This isn’t strictly untrue. You’ve reminded everyone at every level of the reform efforts that the Tevinter Circles are more than just a cautionary tale. As Dorian pointed out (more than once), the rebel mages were a pathetic bunch, barely educated to the level required to fend off demonic possession. Vivienne tried to stand as a shining example of what those with talent were allowed to learn, but her protests always felt hollow when you watched the reformed rebels train. Half of them were too terrified of their own power to take charge of it and come into their own. The other half were terrified what might be done to them if they did show genuine talent. Better to be barely a mage, if you could manage it.

“They should fear,” Vivienne said when you brought her out of the keep to see it for herself. “Magic is a danger to all, not just those who don’t possess it.”

Those words still sit uneasy with you. Your Keeper taught you that those who believed that they could do no harm were the most dangerous of all. You’ve always had a healthy respect for the power you possess. But you never started to fear yourself until you woke up in a cell with ancient, uncontrollable forces in the palm of your hand. Even Vivienne, you realized, the strongest, wisest Circle mage you’ve met, believes that there is no hope in a mage’s existence but to accept themselves as poison, useful only for wielding against greater evils. Even she fears her own magic.

If only every race in the world could be as lucky as yours, you think. History destroyed, half way to extinction. Sure, you have your own tragedies. You hear stories of fourth-born mages left to fend for themselves in the wilds, but what are those scattered tales compared to these ancient institutions of bone and blood?

If Arlathan hadn’t fallen…

You shrug the thought off. The gates of Minrathos are finally open to you.

Word travels through the ranks, helpfully carried along to you by Evres, that your forces are being shepherded to an Imperial camping ground outside the city walls.

“That’s not what we agreed,” you growl, irritable from the heat, the wait, and now the discourtesy of it all.

A small moment of self-awareness informs you of how far you’ve come from the disgraced Dalish boy you were that you find this _discourteous._ So much for your insistence that your position hasn’t changed you.

“The commander isn’t happy either. But Minrathos sees us as a standing army at this point, not an envoy. That we pushed for this meeting isn’t helping matters. They’re suspicious.”

“What’s to be done? We’re certainly not turning around now. Will camping outside the city walls really improve our position any?”

“More than forcing the issue would. But the commander wants your word before he moves forward. He’s stalling as it is. Any longer and it won’t look good for him. We need to make a decision fast.”

“Could we split our forces? Leave enough men within the gates to keep proper appearances and then send the rest to… Kaffas! We need more time. I can’t recall the maps. Is there any place close by that we could set up a proper camp without further irritating the magisters?”

“We’re going to have to work on your Tevene more. That was terrible,” Evres kindly takes a moment out of this clearly unimportant discussion to harp on your pitiful pronunciation yet again. “I couldn’t tell you off the top of my head, Inquisitor. I’d have to return to the commander, see what he says.”

“We don’t have time for that. Tell him to split the forces if at all possible. We’re better off securing the good will of our hosts than trying to make an impression through force. The Inquisition’s reputation will be our greatest defense here, not the might of our forces.”

Evres relays the message faithfully and soon your forces are on the move. You, Evres, and Noel are conveniently transferred from the rations train to the commander’s personal belongings. Noel makes some comment about the poor sods who got ousted on your behalf. Apparently tending to Cullen’s things is a position of honor. Imagine that.

You should feel more anxious about this, you think as you walk through the massive black gates. Or at least you should stop feeling so blighted excited. No one in their right mind should be this happy about sneaking in to one of the oldest and most powerful cities in all of Thedas uninvited. But therein lies the problem: you are clearly not in your right mind and haven’t been for quite some time.

The magisters do seem at least somewhat apologetic about the sudden change of plans. You were originally going to stay in one of the city’s larger establishments, a place which was up to the challenge of housing an envoy that had traveled as far as they had. With the sudden reduction in your number, however, you are to be given more personal lodgings. A magister by the name of Adalvan Myceneus had graciously offered you the use of one of his properties, a sizeable house near the center of the city. He even went so far as to offer you the use of some of his house’s own slaves, which Cullen immediately rejected.

You express your concerns to Evres, wishing all the while you could simply talk to Cullen yourself. He assures you that it would be entirely out of character for one of the Magisterium to take advantage in that fashion.

“They don’t respect much here in Tevinter, but they do respect the sanctity of the house,” he explains as best he can. “This is actually a good sign, believe it or not. We’re safer here than we ever would be in an inn. We wouldn’t be able to take a shit at an inn without a dozen spies reporting it back to their masters. A house for our own use, though? They’re making a gift of privacy. I’d suggest learning more about this Magister Myceneus. He obviously wants you happy, but for what purpose I couldn’t guess.”

You’re too busy unloading the commander’s things to get in much more conversation on the subject than that. You do your best to be helpful. Your commanding officer, a human woman named Kath, is clearly knows who you are and is uncomfortable ordering you around. Thankfully, your two guards are not to be removed from your side, giving her the excuse of yelling at the three of you as a unit. You move crates and unload caravans. It’s not work any of you are used to, making you the slowest and cmost useless members of the supply train. Officer Kath eventually gets frustrated at how often she’s forced to yell at you to keep up appearances and assigns you a babysitter. Things go somewhat smoother after that.

You’re aching and filled with a new-found appreciation for the importance of non-combatants by the time the work is done. Unfortunately, the end of your day job only means the beginning of your work as Inquisitor.

“How safe are we here?” you ask Evres. “How dedicated do I need to remain for the sake of this ruse?”

“Absolute dedication would be best, for the moment at least. Even with the demands of tradition on our side, there’s no telling how secure this place is. Magisters aren’t the sanest bunch on a good day, and those few who do keep their wits about them are more dangerous than all the rest combined,” he tells you. “We need to learn more about this Magister Myceneus. Josaphine should have come with us. Her name carries more clout here than Lamond’s.”

“You know we had to choose. We couldn’t make it look like all of my highest officers abandoned the keep.”

“A ruse which would have been easier to uphold if you would have just stayed there yourself,” he argues.

“I saved all of Thedas from an ancient, unstoppable evil! You’d think that’d earn me just the slightest bit of control over the course of my own life,” you grouse. “They won’t chain me to that bloody throne, no matter how hard they try.”

Noel laughs while Evres grumbles something you’re certain is unflattering in Tevene. You try and fail to translate it.

“Give the lad a break, will you? I think he’s allowed to make a few stupid decisions."

“As always, I am grateful to have you at my defense,” you inform her sarcastically while you get to work on freeing your hair from the interlocking braids you’ve taken to keeping it in. The last thing you wanted while traveling through those so-called jungles was your wet hair clinging to your neck and face.

This is a familiar line of conversation. If there's anything your time as the Inquisitor has taught you, it’s that long, arduous journeys have a way of bringing people together. At the start of your journey north, neither Noel nor Evres seemed as if they would ever be broken from their habitual formality around you. Now just look at them, mocking you as surely as if you were a lowly grunt soldier. You’re so proud.

“Anytime,” she says, clapping you on the shoulder.

Neither of them approve of you being here. Noel finds it sweet but stupid. Evres merely finds it stupid.

“I just don’t understand you,” he commented one night after a drink too many. “Of all the blighted humans… Now if it were Cullen, or someone… Just using him as an example, you understand? I’m not saying that there’s anything… Well, you know. But if it were Cullen… See, that’d be smart. He’s the one you should have gone after. Just as pretty as that Altus, but none of the fuss. Now _that_ I could understand.”

Even drunk he’d been smart enough to keep himself from saying anything more direct than that, but the trouble with traveling with spies and Inquisitors was that you really didn’t need to say more than that to give yourself away. Cullen often inspires more than just loyalty in his men. You can’t help but to pity them both, just a little. Well, pity and tease.

This trip isn’t the foolhardy rush into enemy territory that your opposition, namely Cullen, like to paint it as. You had Josaphine’s support, and not just because she’s almost as much of a romantic as Cassandra. She genuinely believes that the political climate in Minrathos is something slightly less than deadly. It might even be coldly polite. More importantly, reminding Tevinter that the Inquisition is not in fact on another continent will only be to Dorian’s benefit, which will only be in the Inquisition’s benefit, which will only be in the Divine’s benefit. There’s a lot of good to be done here, if the Creators favor you. If they don’t… Well, Cullen’s got a plan for that too.

“Hey, so, the house is clear,” Sera says as she comes in the room. “Cullen says you don’t have to go ‘round acting like a servant anymore. I tried to tell him that a week down with the little people would do you some good, but nobody ever listens to me.”

“Thank the Creators,” you sigh, shaking the last of the braids free. You’re not certain you could have gone another day worrying about whether or not the commander had ideal access to his small clothes.

“Hey, none of that Dalish nonsense now,” she swats you. “It’s the Maker or nothin’. Never know who’s listening in a nasty magic city like this.”

“If I teach you some more Tevene swears, do you think you can manage to control yourself?” Evres asks. “We can’t have you blowing this with a single misplaced word. They’ll blame me if you do, you know. No one’s going to believe that the Lord Inquisitor was just too distracted by thoughts of his foreign lover to pay attention to my lessons.”

“Ha! That’s a laugh. Just about anybody who knows him half way decent would believe that,” Sera teases. “You remember what he was like the week fancy pants left? No, wait, bet you don’t. You weren’t here for that, were you?”

“If everything goes according to plan, you won’t have to be my teacher for much longer,” you remind him, ignoring Sera completely. “Not that I don’t appreciate your efforts. I just…”

“You’d just do for a little more hands-on demonstration?” he suggests with a grin.

“More like tongues-on!” Sera snorts, jumping on the last unoccupied bed in the room. “Speaking of, I’m supposed to tell you that if you decide to sneak off without telling anybody, I’m gonna have to shoot you. Just a little, so that you can run. Got it?”

You roll your eyes, “I’m guessing that’s a direct message from Cullen?”

“Good guess,” she grins. “Also, he says just so you know, he’s working on it. So there’s no need to do anything stupid. Stupider. Those were his exact words. You know, more or less.”

“I am capable of being reasonable,” you grumble. “He doesn’t have to act like I’m some mindless maiden intent on eloping in the middle of the night.”

“If you were reasonable, you would have turned tail and ran the moment that ruddy dragon roared in your face back in Haven,” she points out. “Last thing we expect from you is reasonable. But it’s why we all follow your mad arse, so don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“What does he mean by he’s working on it?” you're unable to resist asking.

“You know, talking to people. Sending out messages. That sort of thing.”

“Which is unlikely to get resolved within the next few hours, I suppose,” you say, trying not to sound as disappointed as you are. You are reasonable, regardless of what your companions think, and reasonable people don’t expect to run straight to Dorian’s bed the moment they enter Minrathos. “There’s no sense in keeping this mess on for any longer. Noel, do you have a rag?”

“I’ll do you one better. I’ve got you a basin of fresh water and two rags, one for washing and one for drying. Figured you’d be asking after that sooner or later.”

“You are invaluable. I should be paying you more.”

“Do you even know what you pay me now?”

“Not a clue.”

“Trust me when I say it’s more than adequate compensation for fetching a basin of water,” she laughs.

Sera’s dragged her bags in by the time you’ve washed the dirty, caked salve off of your face. You’re thankful not to have to share the space with anyone else. The servant’s quarters (or are they slave quarters, you wonder?) are fitted with four small beds clearly designed for elven needs to a single room. You’ve slept in far closer quarters in your time. You’re mainly glad to be spared the hassle of breaking another poor soul out of their habitual respect for your title.

You don’t sleep well that night. No matter how hard you scrub, you can’t seem to get the smell of that salve off your face. Part of you can’t help but to be constantly reminded what a bad idea this is, the leader of one of the mightiest military forces in all of Thedas sneaking into a not-far-from-hostile country like a thief in the night.

More than anything, it’s thoughts of Dorian that keep you awake. The day you left, it seemed like wisdom to keep him in the dark about your plans. The few methods of communication you have between Skyhold and Tevinter are far from secure. As Josaphine did hesitantly point out, your knowledge of Tevinter politics are too limited to really be certain how your presence could shift the already delicate balance of power in Minrathos. The more you learn about Tevinter, the more you come to understand that it is a powder keg held together by the twin powers of tradition and fear, no different than the south before the events at Kirkwall. Your presence could be a rallying point for the city’s elite. One mention of you might turn the tide in Dorian’s favor or irreversibly against him, undoing all of his work over the past six years.

On the other hand, the Inquisition itself remains one of Dorian’s strongest allies. The decrees of a foreign Divine mean little to an isolated and ancient nation, but even Tevinter cannot fight a war on all sides. Even if your mighty army crushed itself against the black walls of Minrathos like every other army before it, Tevinter would be left a wounded animal. The Qunari would finish the job. That is as certain as the likelihood of the sun rising on the morn.

Of course, the very suggestion of marching on Minrathos is an impossible scenario from a political standpoint. The Inquisition has no right or reason to mobilize. But from a position of what’s technically possible, the threat is still there. The Imperium would be a fool not to feel the pressure of the growing military might around them. Playing nice with a revolutionized (if ever savage) south is in their best interest, and Dorian has proven himself an able and enthusiastic mediator. Cullen’s presence is nothing if not a boon, a way to remind the Magisterium that the south is both real and immediate. A first breach of Minrathos’ mighty walls.

You, however, are a cannon at the gate. It will take more than six years of even Dorian’s hard work for an elf with dangerous ties to the White Divine to be able to walk through the black gates without causing the nobility to soil their knicker.

Will he be happy to see you? If he was reasonable, probably not. But the Dorian you once knew was anything but reasonable. You hope your time apart hasn’t changed that much.

But six years is a long time, even if with the persistent demands of your respective offices. There have been letters, but the lack of security inherent to the written word left them too empty on both ends. There was so little he could tell you without the guarantee that your letters were not being intercepted, and what he could tell you was further limited by how little he _would_ tell you.

_It’s a mid-summer full moon, just as it was the first night I spent on the journey back to Minrathos. I suppose that makes it a full year now since I was last in Skyhold. So much has changed in so short a time. I wish I could tell you more than that._

_All I am free to tell you are things you already know. For instance, I still deeply loathe the cold. The sun was at its zenith over Minrathos today. Remember that night in the Frostbacks when I told you about the celebration we hold on the hottest day of each year? The Feast of the Dragon’s Eye, if you don’t recall. I told you how the heat of our summers was only bearable because we had the fetes to look forward to right when nature was at its worst. While I was there shivering in our cramped little tent half-buried in the snow, I told you I’d gladly spend the rest of my days in the miserable, suffocating heat of Dragon’s Eye Eve never to feel the relief of the fetes if it meant not having to spend another minute in the blighted Frostbacks. You said that I’d just go right back to complaining about the heat once the novelty wore off. Three days tops, you said._

_It’s Dragon’s Eye Eve today. I’ve been distracted all day by thoughts of coming home and finally getting to say that you, Cesare Lavellan, were wrong. I hate the cold. I will always hate the cold, and I would gladly suffer a lifetime of Dragon’s Eye Eves if it spared me another miserable night like that one. I’ll have you know I spent the entire day on the beach letting the sun do its worst to my bare skin while thinking about just how wrong you were._

_I still shiver when I think about that night. Even if I soaked up all the sun in Minrathos, I doubt I could ever forget what real cold feels like. I hate you for that._

I hate you, never I miss you. I was thinking about the south, but never you. At first you simply cursed the prying eyes and ears that made such subtlety necessary. But time passed and the letters became shorter, their contents more veiled. You found yourself worrying one day that maybe you were reading more into his letters than he intended. Once you started, you never managed to stop. You’d be lying if you said that wasn’t at least part of what motivated you to ignore all rational thought and smuggle yourself into the Imperium.

Sleep comes eventually, but it’s no rejuvenating slumber judging by the soreness in your muscles when you wake. You must have slept as rigidly as the dead.

Thankfully, you aren’t required to feign your way through a servant’s duties two days in a row. With the house secure, you are free to walk around with your Vallaslin bare, so long as you keep away from doors and open windows.

You make your first order of business seeking out Cullen. You find him in the middle of breakfast, already discussing the movement of your split forces over a crumb-littered map.

“We need to judge which cities in the surrounding area are the most receptive to our presence,” you hear him saying as you walk into the cellar room where Cullen has set up operations. With no windows and thick stone walls on all sides, your words here are as safe as they could ever be in Minrathos. “Someone certainly owns all of these lands. We can’t merely pick a clear spot and set up camp. We need proper clearance. Worse, we need to insure we’re not imposing on anyone. We’ll split the forces again if we have to, but I won’t move any of them more than half a day’s march from the city.”

“How bad is it?” you ask from the doorway.

“Ah, Inquisitor. Glad to see you’re still with us,” Cullen says by way of greeting, apparently having thought of no better way to tease you since he sent Sera off last night.

“I’m not a child. I am capable of restraint,” you pout, stealing a piece of his toast.

“As you just aptly demonstrated.”

“If Lamond would do us all the favor of eating before noon, I would have stolen his toast,” you say, then to drive the point home you snatch up Lamond’s coffee and down a good portion before returning it. “You do have seniority at the war table, even in the Imperium. I’m shocked you think I wouldn’t respect that.”

“You are lucky you are the Herald of Andraste. I have killed men for lesser insults,” Lamond says while examining the remains of his coffee. You’re honestly not sure Lamond understands the practice of friendly ribbing. Perhaps it’s an Orleisian thing.

“So, how bad is it?” you ask again now that the niceties are out of the way.

“Bad isn’t the exact word I’d choose,” Cullen says after a quick bite of the toast in his hand. Probably trying to finish it off as fast as possible now that you’re here. “Complicated. It’s complicated, certainly, but not quite bad. Not yet.”

“The commander is more worried than he needs to be,” Lamond says. “Our soldiers are of little to no importance now that we have reached the city. I would have suggested coming in fewer numbers if the land between Orlais and Tevinter were not so untamed.”

Cullen gives Lamond a sour look that is certainly not in the spirit of friendly ribbing. Cullen has not taken well to Lamond, and his opinion of the man has improved little over the last fortnight you spent with the non-combatants if his current look is any indication.

“Your concern for your men is _admirable_. It is also unnecessary. What do you expect them to do, tear down the walls of the impregnable city if he is captured? Standing forces within the city would do use little better. If they wish to kill us, they will kill us. It is as simple as that,” he says with a surly shrug. Lamond is no fonder of mornings than he is of Cullen. The combination of the two has proved volatile on more than one occasion during your long, long journey from Skyhold. “I expected you of all people to understand that.”

“Need I remind you that it is our job to do everything in our power to insure the Inquisitor’s safety?” Cullen replies tersely.

“No, it is not. The Inquisitor is, as I’m sure you recall, safe and sound back in his mighty fortress. Our job is to do everything in our power to maintain and hopefully improve relations between Tevinter and the Inquisition.”

“Be that as it may,” you break in when it looks as if Cullen might grind his teeth into dust just to keep the petty argument from escalating. “I would feel safer if our forces were kept within a reasonable distance. I hold no illusions as to their usefulness so long as we remain within the city walls, but if for some unforeseen reason we need to leave quickly, I’d rather do it with our troops than without them.”

“It will be taken care of, Inquisitor. As I was saying earlier, it might be wiser to split our forces further. Two, perhaps three squadrons, depending on what intelligence brings back, kept just far enough from the city to keep the blighted magisters happy while we’re here.”

“I was told that the offer of this house was a sign of good faith,” you say, mainly to Lamond. “Or at least good will on behalf of Magister Myceneus.”

“Hm. More like good will on behalf of a certain Magister Pavus,” Lamond says with a devious smile. “I spent the better part of last night being entertained by the good magister. Myceneus, that is. He seemed rather eager to inform us of his connections to House Pavus.”

“Connections? Is he being blackmailed?”

Lamond smirks, looking a bit cruel, as is typical before he’s finished his second or third morning coffee. Draining half of his mug was perhaps not the smartest thing you have done this morning.

“Nothing so crude. At least, not as far as I can tell from a single night,” he explains. “He seems a genuine convert. And a businessman who doesn’t have strong ties to the slave market. I believe he would like to see his country’s currency, and his business by extension, be worth something in the eyes of the world beyond the black gates.”

“A Tevinter businessman who doesn’t profit solely off the labor of slaves?” Cullen remarks with mock surprise. “What is the world coming to?”

“He deals mainly in trade,” Lamond explains. “You don’t give slaves a ship or a caravan and expect them to come back. Things might be different if we were still living in the days where ships were little better than massive rowboats with sails, but modern ships require only a small crew of well-trained men. The business no longer lends itself to the use of slaves. To make matters worse for our poor Magister Myceneus, the goods he can legally trade are… shall we say, limited at best. The south is hardly any more eager for Tevinter imports than Par Vollen. The trade of artisanal goods is steady as always, but Tevinter is not a nation which historically has done much importing or exporting, ignoring their connection to Orzamar. Their only product of any appeal is a somewhat dangerous venture, and even it is proving to be less than profitable with the reforms.”

“Lyruim trade, you mean.”

“Just so.”

Cullen predictably frowns at the mention of lyrium, but the look passes quickly. An old wound healing well.

“I don’t understand what any of that has to do with the Inquisition. If anything, you’re making it sound like we should be his natural enemy,” Cullen says.

“It’s simple economics, Commander. If Tevinter opens itself up to southern trade, which it inevitably will, slave labor becomes a financial weakness,” Lamond explains. “Right now, the Imperium’s issued coin holds pathetic weight in comparison with that of its southern and even western neighbors. The only reason they have survived for as long as they have is because they have their free use of magic and their isolation on their side. I would explain the intricacies further, but I predict it would be a wasted effort on my part. You will have to simply take it on my word that Myceneus has every reason to wish for greater trade between the Imperium and the southern nations. The short term gains could be tremendous. Before the Imperial market crashes in upon itself, of course. But our dear magister fancies he’s smart enough to keep his house’s head above water. He’s likely right.”

“So Dorian has placed an ally at our doorstep,” you say. “Or rather, placed us on the doorstep of an ally.”

“You have a one-track mind as always, Inquisitor. Perhaps one of your better qualities, but it does not avail you here,” Lamond says with the same somewhat superior tone that soured his relationship with your commander. “If you recall, I said his connection was with Magister Pavus, not his son.”

That’s a surprising distinction, one you are unsure how to react to. You met Dorian’s father only once, and was… What, some eight or nine years ago now? That rather ugly family meeting had gone somewhat better than Dorian expected, you think. Not that he spoke about it much after. You wonder, not for the first time, how well Dorian has re-integrated into House Pavus these past six years.

“Every report I’ve received so far has lead me to believe that the gift of this estate is a rather fortuitous turn of events,” Cullen says. “I’ve had our best men survey the premises. In terms of security, we couldn’t expect better within the city. The construction is plain and rather unsympathetic to prying ears. I set up a skeleton guard last night at the traditional points and then sent our best men out to see who tried to take advantage and where. To be honest, I expected more than the few peeping toms we caught. I’m not suggesting we let our guard down just yet, but I suspect that Magister Myceneus’ influence playing to our advantage as much as his property is.”

“Likely. He will want to do more to curry our favor than treat us to a few nice dinners while we’re here. He’s expecting our influence to secure the eventual negotiation of trade routes. Keeping his enemy’s informants out of our hair would only be in his benefit. The less power they hold over us, the more likely he is to get what he wants.”

“And how does Magister Pavus benefit from all this?” you ask, not wanting to make another hopeful assumption.

“I should think that would be obvious,” Lamond says irritably while signaling for one of the soldiers at the door to get him some more coffee. “Why am I forced to explain this to you? Is what you know of your in-laws so limited?”

You are going to ignore that crack about in-laws, even if you do find it intensely irritating. Mostly because even after all your time among humans, you’re still not entirely sure what an in-law is supposed to be. You know the legal and familial distinctions, of course, but the joking way humans refer to their in-laws has always confused you. You think the joke here is about your ambiguous relationship with Magister Pavus. What confuses you is whether or not you are the punchline.

No matter. You habitually err on the side of Lamond being an arse.

“I’m sorry, the few letters I got from Tevinter that weren’t completely intercepted by Dorian’s political enemies, my political enemies, or simply eaten by any number of noxious creatures didn’t contain much about court life,” you say, matching his ire with brevity. The surest way to handle Lamond’s arrogance is to make him feel the outsider, you’ve found. Dismiss his venom. Act like you’re in Celene’s court and he quickly becomes desperate for the familiarity you share with your higher advisors. It’s a stinging slap for a man who lacked the temperament for Orlesian politics, a man who joined the Inquisition because, like so many of you, it was the only place he could ever hope to fit in.

Lamond sighs, kneading the bridge of his nose between two fingers before deigning to be helpful again.

“Am I to assume you’ve learned nothing more than the personal from these letters?”

Less than that even, but you've no mind to discuss that here.

“It would be the safer assumption, yes.”

“The fate of House Pavus is now inextricably linked to the fate of one Dorian Pavus. A rising star, no doubt. Young, driven, capable, and startlingly intelligent. You know all these things, of course, but now the Magisterium does as well. What that meant for Magister Pavus is that he could not afford to be neutral. I couldn’t tell you why he chose to back his son, but I can tell you that by doing so he has insured that he will not survive his son’s failure. To destroy Dorian, they would now have to burn House Pavus into the ground. For better or for worse, Halward has placed all in the hands of his son.”

You wonder how Dorian is shouldering that responsibility. You think of how dearly he held on to that necklace once you managed to get it back. He’s certainly doing his father proud, but you worry whether Magister Halward is able to see that for himself.

“And speaking of Dorian,” Cullen breaks in with a smile. “I’m sure you’re eager to take care of your own business.”

“If the risk is too great, I’ll stay here and continue my charade as a servant,” you assure him. “Getting off of that blighted throne for a few weeks is a reward in itself.”

“Of course you had to wait until we were on his doorstep to get cold feet,” he says, shaking his head. “You couldn’t have backed out when we were still in Ferelden. Of course not. That would be too easy.”

“I’m not getting cold feet! I’m merely… No one is more invested in the outcome of this mission than I am. I am the last person who needs to be reminded of just how fragile relations between Tevinter and the south are. I would rather go another decade without seeing Dorian that I would jeopardize everything he has worked for.”

“Don’t worry, Inquisitor. If we would have thought that was a significant risk, we would have locked you in the dungeons until we were across the Orleisian border,” Lamond tells you helpfully over his fresh cup.

“As much as I hate to agree, he’s right. Josaphine assured me that this could only go so wrong. And we do have contingency plans in place in case you are discovered. Several, in fact. They mainly revolve around us shaming Minrathos for treating the Dalish too poorly for you to journey here openly. Frankly, it will be easier to apologize for your surprise presence than it would have been for us to parade you through the gates,” Cullen assures you. “Go and see him. You’ll hear no more objections from me. In fact, go to his bed and stay there until we’re ready to leave. You’d likely be safer there than you are here, and I’d have you out of my hair while I try and keep a handle on the rest of this.”

You think you should probably be insulted by this, at least a little. You’re finding it hard, though.

“Hm. I must admit, I am a bit surprised at you, Inquisitor,” Lamond says. “I’ve heard so many rumors. Passion and romance between lovers brought together and then cruelly torn apart by fate. Now I finally get the chance to see it in person, and this is the best you have to offer?”

Alright, that you’re insulted by.

“This is why you shouldn’t always take Varric at his word. He also says I single-handedly killed a dragon,” you reply, hiding your embarrassment behind childish ire.

“You did single-handedly kill a dragon,” Cullen says pointedly.

“I did not. Varric, Dorian, and the Iron Bull were there with me. They helped.”

“They threw you potions and cheered you on.”

“They kept the smaller dragons off my back,” you argue. “And they threw potions. I needed those potions.”

“I thought that was an exaggeration,” Lamond says, wide-eyed. “You killed a dragon? By yourself?”

“So did Iron Bull!”

“Hardly. He would have never managed it if you and Dorian weren’t constantly maintaining a barrier over him while Varric took pot-shots at the beast while his back was turned. Really, I don’t know why you bother. Everyone who was part of the Inquisition at the time heard the story. The real story.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” you try and assure Lamond. “It’s just that my particular skill set makes killing dragons much easier than otherwise might be.”

“Killing dragons is easy, he says,” Lamond cries. “I suppose I should expect no less from the man who saved Thedas.”

“That’s not what I said! I just said that it was easier for me than…” Alright, you heard it that time. “I didn’t say it was easy. It took me almost five hours to bring the beast down.”

“How are you possible? I genuinely do not understand. If even half the stories are true…”

Lamond looks as if he has just stepped bodily into the Fade. Up is down and little elven boys can save the world and kill really big things. Perhaps that will teach him a lesson about judging others so severely on appearances alone. You hope so. You’re getting a bit weary of this shemlen assuming you are younger than he is. You are, but only by two years. Hardly the decade plus he makes it out to be.

“This message is getting delivered to House Pavus this morning, with or without you,” Cullen says, picking up a sealed scroll. “Can I trust you to deliver it in a timely manner, or are you apt to spend half the morning working up the courage to knock on the door?”

“Give me the damn letter,” you order, getting quite fed up with their teasing. “I am not a coward for worrying. I seem to recall you doing a lot of worrying yourself before we left.”

“Well, it’s a little too late for that, isn’t it?” Cullen points out. “Go back to being stubborn and in love. That I’ve planned for.”

“As my Commander orders then,” you say, mock bowing as you get up to leave.

“Take Noel and Evres with you. Evres knows the way. I’ll not have official Inquisition messengers running around the city like lost sheep,” Cullen orders. “And don’t forget to actually deliver the letter. It is of some importance.”

“And don’t come back until you’re happy and bow-legged!” Lamond shouts at your back.

Creators save you from the good will of your friends.


	2. Reunion

“We come on behalf of the Inquisition, bearing a message for Dorian of House Pavus. Is he present?” Evres asks the elven servant who opens the door of the rather impressive estate. You only know that’s what he is saying because he tried teaching you the same words before you left. The plan was to let you lead your little cabal. That plan promptly fell apart when your Tevene was deemed too pathetic to manage a simple conversation. Evres was right. You are a terrible student.

The woman says something back. It’s soft, polite, and contains Dorian’s name along with the word “and.” That is all you manage to catch. Evres says something back that’s equally incomprehensible. The conversation continues in the same vein for a long, anxious moment before you are invited into the foyer, where the woman promptly leaves you.

“Evres?” you whisper.

“Hm?”

“I’m done being reasonable.”

You snatch the letter out of his hand and rush after the girl.

“Go back to headquarters,” you order when he tries to follow. “I believe I can handle things from here.”

“You don’t speak a word of Tevene!” he hisses, but as you said, you are done being reasonable.

You catch up to the woman and give her a friendly smile when she says something you think translates to a polite command to stop whatever it is you think you’re doing.

“I have a letter for Dorian,” you say, giving her your best approximation of proper Tevene. You repeat the words exactly, waving the letter when she doesn’t keep moving. She seems to eventually grasp that she is outmatched by your stubborn ignorance and deigns to lead you onward.

Unfortunately, she leads you not to Dorian but to another elven woman, one whose sharp, black dress and delicately coifed hair suggests she is anything but a servant. Your guide says something nervous and clipped. You manage to decipher that it is about you, but little else.

The other woman smiles in a way that makes you second guess your decision to leave Evres and Noel in the foyer. She dismisses your guide and you find yourself suddenly wishing you hadn’t come without your staff.

“Soldiers from all nations share some things in common, it seems,” she says in the common tongue. “Always eager to get the job done. I assume you can understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry for the imposition, but I…” you grapple for an excuse for your bizarre behavior. “It is very important that I deliver this message as quickly as possible. I have been ordered to hand this to Dorian Pavus personally.”

“A letter so urgent that you couldn’t have waited for him to make the trip downstairs? My, that must be important.”

“Indeed, ma’am,” you say, putting on your best soldier act. You feel that she’s too dangerous an opponent to rely on your (admittedly questionable) wit and charm. Hopefully stonewalling her like a proper soldier will work better, whoever she is. “If you could please direct me to him, I would appreciate your assistance in this matter.”

Her smile reminds you of Celene’s. It sends a shiver down your spine.

“Very well, then.”

She walks past you, her dress moving fluidly around her ankles despite its severe appearance. You follow her and hope it’s the right move. You catch sight of Evres and Noel still waiting in the foyer as you pass along an open hallway above. You think to signal them, but they aren’t looking your way. You aren’t sure what you would try and tell them even if they were paying attention. Probably that you’re an idiot, but you think it’s working.

“One moment, soldier. I will have to insist that you let me go in first. The young master has made his wishes very clear on this matter. He is very busy today and not to be disturbed by anything that is not of the utmost importance,” she says, then gives you that smile again. “However, I expect that you warrant an exception. What could have given me that impression, I wonder?”

Before you can try and decipher that comment, she has the door to the room open. She switches back to Tevene to address someone within and then you hear a voice you haven’t heard for half a decade. The only question that remains is how unreasonable you are going to be.

“Sorry, you’ll have to repeat that. My Tevene hasn’t improved much in the last six years,” you say, stepping into the room. “Did you just tell me to go shit on my own tongue?”

The look on Dorian’s face almost makes the long absence worth it. He’s standing beside a dark, ornate desk, one hand poised over a thick roll of parchment and the other on the open pages of an old book. As always, he’s monopolizing the best light to be had in the room. He’s changed. His clothes, something about his hair. His skin is darker too now, doubtless the work of Tevinter’s fabled weather. The hair on his face (one day you swear you will learn the human words for these things) now covers most of his chin. But thank the Creators, you can still see Skyhold’s library around him.

His anger drops quicker than his jaw and you can’t stop yourself from smiling. You are supposed to be a stoic, dumb foot soldier on a mission, you remind yourself, but it does no good. Dorian is, for one of the few times in his life, absolutely speechless.

“Excuse me, Master Pavus,” you say, summoning your limited Tevene again. “I have an important message for you from Commander Cullen Rutherford of the Inquisition.”

You step past the woman in the sharp, black dress to formally deliver the letter. You can’t help but to feel a sense of satisfaction that surely shows in your eyes as you lean over the desk to hand it to him. He’s probably going to kill you once he recovers from the shock, but even the threat of magical disembowelment can’t ruin this moment for you.

“It was very important that I hand this to you personally,” you say, unintentionally dropping your soldier voice for something (dare you say?) seductive.

He grabs your wrist instead of the letter. He finally manages to break your gaze as he pulls up your sleeve, baring the nearly five year old scar that marked your (largely honorary) initiation into the Iron Bull’s Chargers. His fingers scratch across it as if making sure it’s real. The letter rolls out of your fingers, forgotten by the both of you.

Dorian barks something in rapid Tevene to the woman at the door. You don’t dare to turn and see her reaction with the way Dorian still holds you, grip iron-tight. You hear the door shut behind you and hope that signals her departure. You want Dorian to yourself.

Dorian finally releases your wrist to get up and move around the desk. You meet him half way, only to find his hands on your chest. He pushes you step by step until your back hits the closed door. Maker, but he is furious. You’re the one who can’t manage to look away now. You must really have done a number on him, you think, to have him in silence this long.

“Do you still need convincing?” you ask, barely able to find the breath for even that much.

“I know your scars,” he says, and his voice sends you back to your first night together. _Just how bad does the Inquisitor want to be?_ “Intimately.”

He tries to pull you closer, fingers going straight to your hair in a way that is immediately familiar, but you’re already moving forward to meet him. You feel the years slip away as you finally, finally get to kiss him. He slides his fingers over the several braids that run along your temples and straight down to the tie. You expect him to undo it all, to tear at it all until it’s loose and free the way he likes it. Instead, he hesitates.

He presses you back down against the door. You grab him by his hips, digging through the loose fabric of his robes until you find skin. You would have him undressed in under a minute if his hands weren’t so intent on holding you still, thumbs tracing the line of your jaw as he kisses you.

“I want this off,” you complain as your hands meet yet another set of elaborate, tiny buckles.

“Ha! No,” he laughs, pulling back. “No, don’t think you’re getting off that easy.”

He leans back in for one more kiss before stepping away completely. You have no intention of letting him stop now, not after six blighted years, but he pushes you back with a single hand squarely on your chest. You change tactics. You slide your fingers along the underside of his arm where the skin is most sensitive while pinning him with a look that dares him to deny you.

“No,” he says again, but you ignore him completely.

You bring his wrist up to your lips and kiss where your fingers have just been. You missed the smell of him. You missed the taste of him. You want more.

“ _Maker_ ,” he breathes, and you know he won’t hold much longer. “Not here. Not in my blighted study. There’s not even a bed.”

“We’ve done with less before,” you remind him before licking a long stripe up the inside of his wrist.

“Not today, we won’t. It’s been six years. I won’t stop now until I’ve had my fill of you. And that,” he says, finally stopping you, “will require the use of a bed.”

He sticks his head out into the hallway, checking to see if the coast is clear before he drags you along behind him. He twists through the passages and around corners so fast that you’re left dizzy and with absolutely no sense of where you are, though admittedly part of that might be due to how suddenly you are reminded of the joy trailing along behind him has always been. His robes are loose but nothing can hide the way his gait moves his hips. The velvet across his backside catches the light deliciously when he passes a window at just the right angle, his clothing becoming a relief in stark contrasts.

He pulls you into a room suddenly, throwing a heavy latch before forcing you up against the door again. He presses close but kisses you only briefly.

“I’d ask you what in Maker’s name you’re doing here, but I think I’m smart enough to figure that one out on my own,” he says, lips brushing yours as he speaks. It’s driving you mad, but damn it all if you haven’t missed his voice as much as the rest of him. “I suppose the better question is what have you done to your face?”

You laugh, noticing for the first time the way the salve has smeared across his mouth from where he’d kissed you. He makes quite the sight, his dark skin and darker hair smeared with the pale paint.

“All part of the disguise,” you say, wiping your thumb across his lower lip to try and smooth some of it away. “I take it you don’t approve?”

“I thought maybe I was only seeing a resemblance because I wanted to see one.”

“You wanted to see me that badly? That’s promising.”

“If I’m not being obvious enough, then maybe you should tell me exactly what would do the trick.”

“I have a few thoughts,” you grin.

“If I know you,” he says, one hand tracing your spine on its course downward, “and I would like to hope I still do, then you no doubt have planned out precisely how this is supposed to go in your head. So tell me, what happen next? Do I shower you with kisses? Hoist you over my shoulder like a barbarian and take you to my bed? Or have you come to whisk me away on your noble hart?”

He pulls your hips forward with fingers digging into your arse. You try to speak, but his lips find your throat and all you can manage is to gasp out his name. Creators, it’s been too long. Maybe if you could have gotten some privacy in the last fortnight…

“Tell me what you want,” he orders before dragging his teeth across your earlobe, “and I’ll do everything in my power to give it to you.”

No, you seriously doubt that anything you could have done alone would have helped. You drive up against him, any plans forgotten in the rush of heat that goes straight from his lips to your groin. You hold him tight, hoping that it might slow him and stop you in equal measure. One more trick like that and he’ll have you rutting against him without a single regard to the fact that you’re both fully clothed and still against the bloody door.

“Slowly,” you manage. “I want it to last for as long as we can manage. I want you close. I to watch your face as you come. And…”

“And?” he prompts, thankfully taking a hint from your iron grip on him and easing back to gentle kisses down the side of your neck. “Don’t stop now. You’re just getting to the good parts.”

“It’s unusually gracious of you to allow me to dictate the proceedings. Don’t you want to have your say?”

“Unlike some people, I haven’t had several weeks on the road to organize my desires. You’ve caught me rather unprepared. I can think of a million things I want to do to you, but each seems just as pressing as the last,” he says. “Anything that ends with the two of us sated in one another’s arms is bound to knock at least a couple of items off the list, however, so for once I think I am satisfied to let you do the thinking for the both of us.”

“We’ll see how long that holds out.”

“Cheeky,” he growls and pinches your rear. You instinctively jolt away from his fingers and right up against his cock. Dorian groans at the contact. It takes every ounce of self-control you possess not to let that first accidental thrust lead into a second. You need to get him in bed now or risk giving up and letting him fuck you right here.

“I want you inside of me,” you reveal the final piece of your fantasy. “Let me set the pace. You’re no good with slow unless you’re trying to rile me, and Creators know I’m riled up enough as is.”

“A fair point,” he gasps, pressing forward in counterpoint to you and damn near running your self-control. “I certainly couldn’t manage slow at this point. Where would you have me?”

You pull away. As much as you hate to, you need at least a little room both to stop him from doing that again and to finally take a look at your surroundings.

“The window.”

“How naughty,” he says. You’ve seen dragons with less predatory grins.

You are loathe to correct his assumption, but you have to. Even now, you care more about preserving Dorian’s work than you do any simple pleasure.

“No, I mean the curtains. They’re open.”

You hate how fast his smile fades away.

“Oh. Does it bother you?”

“Not particularly. But I thought that…”

You’re not sure how to phrase it. That evil magisters might see you and resort to blood magic to destroy everything you both hold dear? Just a bit much, you think, given the current atmosphere.

Dorian sighs, touching his forehead to yours.

“It’s not that bad here,” he says. “Not for me anymore, at least. I’ve been… shall we say, less that subtle about my preference for men since returning home. Circumstances made sure of that.”

You immediately assume the worst.

“Circumstances?”

“Marriage proposals,” he moans dramatically, as if it was some enduring torture. “I reenter the country a presumed prodigal and disinherited son, and not a year later I’m receiving bloody marriage proposals! I had to do something to get them off my back. Polite just wasn’t cutting it.”

You laugh into his chest. Oh Creators, you've missed him so much.

“If you think that’s funny, just wait until you hear what those bloody influence mongerers did after they realized how pointless their marriage prospects were. You wouldn’t believe how many strapping young apprentices and assistants I’ve had to turn down. After the first dozen doe-eyed boys I sent running back to their mother’s skirts, I almost started to miss the marriage proposals.”

“What a curse it must be, being so handsome and eligible.”

“Handsome, yes. Eligible?” he scoffs, but then he looks at you as if remembering who you are or maybe just how many years have gone by. “Surely there are better uses you could be putting my tongue to than boring you with tales of court life.”

You can’t let yourself think on it now. Whatever he meant, it wasn’t important. It’s not going to interfere with the here and now.

“Get those blighted robes off before I burn them off you,” you order.

You strip as fast as he does, but your eyes never leave him. As good as the pale silver and emerald of his robes looked against his skin (he doubtless chose the fabric just for that reason, damn him), you need this. You need to feel his bare skin against yours.

He’s down to just his trousers when he finally notices how distracted you’ve gotten just at the sight of him. You start fumbling with your own clothes again, but it’s too late to feign innocence.

“You look like you could use some help with that,” he says with a grin, ego clearly stroked by your distraction. “Here.”

He hands you his undershirt.

“Get that filth off your face while I work on this,” he orders, tugging you forward gently by the thick hood of your borrowed uniform.

“Dorian, this is silk,” you complain, ignoring the mild temptation you’re suddenly struck with to press the shirt to your face just to breathe in his smell.

“I don’t care,” he says petulantly, snatching the shirt out of your hands.

He starts with your forehead, wiping your skin bare with wide, gentle strokes. You know from ample experience that your face won’t come clean without a proper scrubbing, but Dorian seems to be making decent progress judging by his expression. He moves from your forehead to one cheek, stubborn but careful, while you work his trousers down over his hips to join yours on the rug. You remember when your sheets used to smell like this.

“There,” he says, finally satisfied. “That’s the man I remember. Well, almost.”

He tugs gently at the tie at the end of your braided hair.

“Do it,” you tell him, and the tie is gone as fast as your clothes. “I’m surprised it took you this long to ask.”

You’re frankly more surprised that he bothered asking in the first place. He never would have before. Either time and age has made him a less demanding lover, or the years have put more distance between you than you thought.

He makes a tisking noise as if you’re an errant child instead of replying, too focused on freeing your hair to bother with your teasing.

“It’s longer,” he notices, still combing out stubborn tangles with his fingers. “Much longer.”

“It was a struggle just keeping it dry on the trip here, much less well-groomed,” you explain, leaning into his touch as his nails drag across your scalp. Of all the things to miss…

“That was definitely not a complaint. Now, I think you were in the process of telling me where exactly you wanted me?”

“You seemed rather fond of my accidental suggestion,” you say, nodding your head over towards the window.

“As considerate as ever, I see,” he teases. “Very well, position me as you wish. I am your servant in all things.”

You guide him back into the tiny, sun-lit alcove, pushing him back into the cushions. Of course his room would have a little place like this, filled with sunlight and surrounded with book cases. It’s too easy to imagine him spending an entire afternoon up here, forgetting the strain of the outside world with a good book and a glass of fine wine.

“It’s a shame I couldn’t get you out onto the balcony at Skyhold. I love the sight of you in the sun.”

“Just the sun? I’ve always been quite fond of what the moonlight does for me as well. I hear it makes my eyes sparkle.”

You lean down to kiss him, eager and rapidly growing impatient.

“Wait a minute.” He stops you from climbing on top of him. “Look just behind that book there. Third shelf down. The black one with the gold lettering.”

You pull the book out and find behind it a rather large glass bottle. When you pull out the stopper, a subtle fragrance works its way through the air. Honey, vanilla, and something slightly sharper.

“How long did it take you to use this much?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at both the size of the bottle and its relative emptiness.

“Much longer than you’re thinking, clearly,” he snaps, taking the bottle from you. “It’s massage oil.”

“That you keep hidden in your bookcase,” you smile, straddling his waist.

“If you think I have that much free time on my hands, you clearly need a better education on my accomplishments these past years. I assure you that it’s ink I’m buying in bulk these days, not oil.”

The fragrance grows stronger as he pours the oil out onto his fingers. The scent isn’t overbearing, but it does make an impression. Just sharp enough to catch your attention, make you want to catch a drop on your tongue to see if it compares. Dorian’s taste is impeccable as always, if habitually unusual.

He presses a well-oiled finger inside of you while his other hand wraps around your cock, so sudden it leaves you gasping.

“Too much,” you pant out, grabbing the hand on your cock to stop him.

“Are you sure you can manage slow?” he says, obediently moving his hand from your cock to his. “I won’t be disappointed if the answer is no.”

“Maybe not,” you barely mange, biting down on your lip as he starts to get particularly clever with the finger inside you. “But I’d at least like to get you in me before I come.”

“Perhaps you should focus on loosening up, then,” he says, working a second finger in. “Maker, you’re tight. You want slow, I’ve half a mind to bend you over that bed and prove to you that this oil is useful for more than just the carnal.”

That’s a pleasant thought, but one you’re not sure you have the patience to make a reality.

“Just out of practice,” you assure him. “It has been years.”

A look passes across his face that you’re not sure how to interpret. He gives you little time to contemplate it before he’s kissing you again. Maybe it’s nothing. Or maybe he’s still in the habit of seeking refuge in the physical when he’s unsure of himself.

You reach down and take his cock in your hand, leaving the subject for a time better suited to thinking.

“I’m tired of waiting,” you growl, and he obediently moves his hands out of the way.

There’s more resistance than you’d like. You are out of practice, painfully so. But with a little work his head finally breaches you. You let out a slow, even breath as you take him inside you, your eyes closed and your head bowed down against his shoulder, just savoring the moment. It’s been too long. You’ve wanted this too much.

You kiss him because that’s what always came next when you imagined it. And also because you’ve always counted kissing Dorian as one of the finer pleasures life has to offer. You move your hips in slow, shallow thrusts, more to help you adjust to the feeling of this again than to give either of you pleasure. His arms wrap around you awkwardly, barely touching. Before you can find the requisite brain power to consider what’s stopping him, you get distracted by a motion to your left.

“That seems like a waste.”

“I’m not about to sit here and let some forest elf tell me what I can and can’t do with my own curtains,” he informs you curtly, wiping the last of the oil on his hands off on the inner curtain defiantly. If you didn’t know him better, you’d think him indifferent to the fact that you’re currently pierced upon his cock. But you still know how to spot his tells and the ways he distracts himself. “Besides, they’re due to be replaced. If you look up by the railing, you can see a faint discoloration. Unavoidable in this climate, I’m afraid.”

“Carry on then, I suppose,” you reply. Curtains may be enough to distract him, but they’re certainly not enough for you, not when you’re trying so hard not to give in and ride him as blindingly hard as your body desperately wants.

“I believe I will, thank you,” he says with a wicked grin.

He grabs your hips with his relatively clean hands and thrusts up into you.

“Ah! _Creators_ , Dorian,” you shout, grabbing hold of him in a desperate attempt to keep your balance and your sanity as he forces you down on him again.

“Do you still want slow?” he growls.

“To the Maker with slow! Don’t you dare fucking stop,” you threaten, fingers dragging through his hair, ruining it as completely as he’s ruining you.

You shift to give yourself better leverage, one hand pressing back against the glass to help support your hungry thrusts. You’re already so close, but you couldn’t stop yourself now if you tried. You open your eyes, hoping that maybe the sight of the city on the other side of the glass might distract you. It is a beautiful city, for all the severity of its architecture. And as you’ve never been one for voyeurism, perhaps the sight of the people carrying on with their lives down below might embarrass you into a greater level of endurance.

Dorian’s eyes meet yours almost the second you open them, and too late you realize your mistake. Dorian, surrounded by the ancient black city and its merciless sun. The sunlight is at just the right angle to catch his eyes and make them glow. You can’t look away. It’s too beautiful, too perfect. Too much of everything you’ve missed all at once.

That’s when his hand finds your cock.

You scream wordless, one hand digging into his back and the other pressed so hard against the window that you’re worried the glass might break. Bright aftershocks wrack you as Dorian keeps moving. It’s almost too much, but then he’s muffling his own cries against your chest.

A sudden chill spreads across your bare skin. You pull your hand away from the glass just in time for a fine layer of frost to cover it, blocking out the city with spiraling crystals. You struggle to keep yourself even half-up on shaking legs while he whispers Tevene into your collarbone. His hands stroke up your spine, touches feather-light and still tingling as idle mana pops formless across the small gaps between your skin and his. Absolute perfection.

“Well, that hasn’t happened in a while,” you laugh, one hand back to determinedly ruining his perfect hair while you survey the damage. Even the cushions underneath you are frozen.

“It’s your own damn fault,” he finally switches to the common tongue, his voice shaking just the slightest bit. “I told you, you make the Fade ripple.”

You spare a glance at your left hand. It’s pulsing gently, almost as bright as it was back when the rift was still active.

“Even if I did harmlessly bend the Fade just a bit, I wasn’t the one who summoned the ice,” you tease before kissing him. “Oh, you might be interested in seeing this.”

You bring your hand around so he can watch as you force the anchor to fade down to a thin and vividly green but definitely not glowing with mystical energies scar.

“With a little more work, I’ll likely be able to hide it completely. I don’t think it wants to be visible. The magic is bonded to all of me, not just at this point. The only reason the scar exists is because of the imperfect casting.”

“Can I?” he asks, reaching for your hand. You suppose nearly losing a finger leaves a man cautious, even years later.

“Perfectly safe, provided you don’t do anything to break my focus for a second time.”

He scoffs at your ill taste in humor before tracing the scar on the inside of your palm. He kneads at it gently with one thumb before flipping your hand over and doing the same to the green line neatly mirrored across the back.

“Purple and green. Only you would wind up with clashing scars,” he says, with a disapproving _tsk_ as he brings your hand up to sniff the mark. “I can still smell the Fade, though perhaps that’s due to you accidentally calling on it just now.”

“Speaking of,” you say, looking pointedly at the fragile icicles above you. The frost on the windowpanes is already melting away.

You don’t want to move. You’re not sure what comes after this. But in six years you somehow forgot just how bad your knees start to hurt after you stay on them for this long, even with cushions. Also, you feel a cramp coming on in your thigh. You need to move.

You lift yourself off Dorian's cock, but he doesn't let you get much farther than that.

“Didn’t your intricate plans include more cuddling after? I’m admittedly rather fond of that part.”

“My intricate plans failed to account for how uncomfortable this position is. You were right. We should have gone for the bed.”

“When will you learn? I am always right,” he reminds you, brushing a strand of hair back off your shoulder.

“Of course, if we had started on the bed, it’d likely be covered in frost right now. Perhaps I am the better planner after all.”

In lieu of a response, Dorian physically picks you up and carries you over to the bed. You flail in shock, grabbing on to him with every limb at your disposal, but it’s not another instant before he’s deposited you on his bed.

“There’s no need to panic. Our respective offices have neither left you fat nor I feeble,” he chides with a light slap to your thigh.

You sprawl out, working the soreness out of your back and legs. The ache leaves quickly as you stretch, leaving your entire body pliant and deliciously sated.

Dorian crawls in after you, ordering you out of the way as he pulls down the sheets and arranges the pillows. Once he’s sufficiently nestled in, he pulls your mouth to his. With one kiss, you’re quickly reminded how deep your desire runs. Sated? Nothing more than a brief respite from your bottomless hunger for him. You were clearly a fool to think otherwise.

You hook one leg over his thigh, tangling your limbs together. Your nerves are still too raw and sensitive for the press of your bodies together to be anything more than intimate, but that’s what you want right now. You want to feel him against you from head to toe. You want to remember long, quiet nights in cramped tents. You want to remember what it’s like to hold someone in your arms and simply be with them. From the way his arm wraps around you in response, Dorian wants much the same.

“Keep that up and you’re never leaving this bed,” he warns, his hand moving to play idly with your hair.

“My schedule is clear. After all, Inquisitor Lavellan is a whole nation away, doubtless doing very important, very secret things that require him not to be seen in court for weeks.”

“Is that why you showed up on my doorstep in those charming fatigues? And here I was beginning to wonder if I was simply being left out of the latest gossip. I had heard your charming commander was coming, of course, but not a word about you. I thought I was going to have to fire someone, or at least light a fire under them.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner.”

“Are you really? Because you seemed rather pleased with yourself earlier.”

“It is nice when a plan comes together,” you admit, smiling.

“So, tell me, now that we’ve got the friendly hellos out of the way and have reacquainted ourselves with one another, what is the Inquisitor doing in the Imperium? Have you come to recruit me to fight another army of demons? I do hope it’s my magic you’re here for and not my ability to craft a finely-worded legal document. Please say you want me to kill something for you. You have no idea how dull and dusty that office of mine gets.”

“I’m sorry to have to disappoint you, but there’s no army of demons threatening the future of Thedas. There’s nothing of import going on at all in the south, really. In fact, the southern nations might actually be peaceful before too long. I don’t know how far news travels, but the reforms are finally starting to settle in,” you say, stroking the firm skin of his arse. Creators, you’ve missed the feel of him. “The perfect time to start talks between a largely unified south and the Imperium, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You mean you’re really just here for the talks? You realize that these trade agreements are still in their infancy, yes? The only reason the Magisterium is paying any attention at all is because of the Inquisition’s presence in the city. Hardly worth your personal attention, even with the greater plans at stake.”

“I’m not really here for anything because I’m not really here,” you say again. “This isn’t exactly an official outing, Dorian.”

“So, you…” He pulls himself up on one elbow. “What exactly are you doing here?”

It hits you then that he’s asking because he actually can’t believe you would do all of this just for a chance to see him. You don’t know how to answer in the face of that. It’s too much, crossing the world for a man who for all you know may have moved on with his life. You knew when he left that there were no promises between you, and not at your insistence but at his. You told him you’d agree to whatever he wanted, and what he wanted was for you to let him walk away, no strings attached.

You knew it was the smart thing to do, just as you knew he was doing it more for your sake than for his own. _I’m already asking so much of you_ , he’d said, _I won’t ask this._ You’d tried to tell him that you didn’t care, that the time and the distance didn’t mean half as much to you as he did, but he was stubborn as always. He refused to have you and leave you at the same time. He would only allow himself one or the other, and he knew which one he had to choose.

The worst part is, you knew from the moment you fell in love with him that he would leave you. Tevinter has always been too much a part of him. His damnable pride couldn’t let him stand at your side as nothing more than just a runaway noble riding your coattails like so many others. Not when you were the Dalish mage who paved the way for a future of unity between all of Thedas’ races. You knew he couldn’t hold himself to any lesser standard than to try and be for Tevinter what you were to the southern nations.

You knew from the moment you gave him back his family amulet. You saw then just how much he cared not just about you or his family but about _everything_. That’s when you knew he would return to Tevinter.

But it wasn’t until the words left his mouth that you realized you couldn’t follow. You are just as tied to the throne at Skyhold as he is to Tevinter. He was right, however many years ago he said it. You will never stop being the Inquisitor.

So you let him go.

He loved you, but he wouldn’t keep you when he knew he had to leave you. You loved him, so you didn’t try and change who he was, and he was Tevinter right down to his very soul. It was all just so blighted _reasonable_. Right up until the point where you dropped every responsibility and crossed the world to see him without a word of warning.

Creators, it’s too much. Where do you go from here when you know you shouldn’t have even gone this far?

“Mainly? I just wanted to get off that bloody throne,” you shrug as best you can while still lying down. “Inquisitors don’t exactly get to vacation in Orleisan chateaus. Too many nobles inviting you to dinner, no matter where you go.”

“And Minrathos is where you decided to go on holiday, of all the places?”

“You spent so much of your time trying to convince us all how superior the climate was in Tevinter that I decided I needed to see it for myself.”

“Is that so? How are you finding it so far?”

“Hot,” you complain. “And wet.”

“Yes, well, that’s what you get for traveling through the southern jungles during the rainy season. I tried informing your lovely ambassador that these talks could be best left for mid-winter, but she insisted that the climate would prove no barrier,” he says, settling back down to play with your hair again. “I suppose that was your doing? Couldn’t wait just a few more months?”

“Perhaps,” you reply coyly. “For someone who was just expressing a fond hope for a demon army to get them out of the office, you’re being surprisingly judgmental. You think you’ve got it bad, I’m still getting marriage proposals on top of all the people desperately vying for a position in my inner circle. Some still believe that the decrease in numbers we experienced after Corypheus was defeated means that there are open positions within the Inquisition.”

“You’re not gathering miscreants in the ranks, are you?”

“A few. We’re getting better at weeding them out, though. We have what you might call a selective screening process now.”

“Please tell me you’re not filling the ranks with outcasts and ragamuffins.”

“Got it in one,” you grin.

“You do realize that some people deserve to be outcasts.”

“That’s why we only take on the most talented of beggars. Believe me, it is an improvement over our previous hiring policy. We’re actually getting dedicated recruits these days, not just social climbers hoping to cash in on the fame of achievements they had no part in,” you tell him. “You might actually like one of our newer recruits, a man named Lamond Fontaine. He’s one of Josaphine’s. He’s here with us, acting as our liaison so Cullen doesn’t give himself an aneurism trying to remember which spoon one should use with chilled soups. Maybe you’ll get a chance to meet him.”

“Orleisan. I like him already,” Dorian says sarcastically.

“Yes, but he is a terrible Orleisan. They didn’t want him because he wasn’t quite fancy enough for them.”

That has Dorian snickering.

“That’s not entirely true. I think it was his temper that got him in trouble more than anything,” you say, trying to be fair to the man, even in jest. “He’s quite proficient at his job, but when it comes to his personal life he has absolutely no tolerance for… anything, really. He’s not the best at making friends. I’m one of the few who has managed to… I don’t want to say tolerate, because he can actually be quite pleasant when you give him a chance. What’s a better word than tolerate?”

“My, but you do know how to pick them, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t sound so smug if I were you. It’s been suggested more than once that the only reason I’m able to put up with him is because he bears a resemblance to a certain other notoriously difficult human I know.”

“Surely you don’t mean me?”

“I don’t. They do.”

“I’m not sure whether that speaks well of him or poorly of me,” Dorian grouses. “What do they even mean by that? Difficult I suppose I could grudgingly accept. I’ve never claimed to go out of my way to be accommodating. But I hardly think temperamental describes me.”

“Oh, of course not You just have a very unique way of caring. One that involves aggressively complaining about the current selection of books at your disposal while waiting for me to ask if you’re perhaps upset about something.”

“One time! I thought you were dead! And you threw me physically into the blighted Fade! Maker forgive me if I was the tiniest bit emotional afterwards!” Dorian says, making much the same face he wore when sneering at your Chantry-dominated library.

“I’m only teasing,” you assure him, kissing him right on his sneering mouth. You’re not teasing. His passion is one of the things you love most about him, even if that means finding yourself on the wrong end of it from time to time. “Though I do have to admit, I used to worry all the time about upsetting you. Talking to you was like dancing with daggers. One misplaced word and I’d find myself fighting off an onslaught. I could barely keep up when you’d really get going. My grasp of the common tongue wasn’t quite up to your noble education. Could you tell? I always wondered.”

“I can’t believe the mighty Inquisitor was intimidated by little old me.”

“I’m not sure intimidated is the right word. Infatuated, more like,” you say, just to make him smile. Creators, you’ve missed the way he smiles at you. “You’d walk in a room and all I’d want was to get your attention, only to wind up with you lecturing me on magic or the Chantry. I was under the impression that you assumed I was just another ignorant southern hick you needed to habitually correct. It took far too long for me to really understand what you meant when you said that men from Tevinter care deeply about everything."

"Those weren't lectures so much as demonstrations. You weren't the only one aiming to be as impressive as possible."

"Also, you flirted with everyone, and that was a bit confusing.”

“Yes, but I only ever flirted seriously with you.”

“And Cullen.”

“That was doomed flirting. It doesn’t count,” he informs you with an (almost) straight face. “Don’t be cruel. I could barely help myself. You know I have a thing for men with great hair and a set of hard, unyielding _principles_.”

“Mhm. And how exactly did the Iron Bull fit into that category?”

Dorian groans so dramatically you can’t help but to start snickering.

“You promised you weren’t going to bring that up anymore.”

You laugh harder than you have in weeks. Dorian manages to hold out for a good three seconds before joining you.

You fall into a long conversation about everything that’s happened over the past six years. Dorians tells you flourishing tales of court intrigue interspersed with moaning laments about the tedium of law reform and the long hours spent hunching over parchment that it requires. You tell him stories about what all of your mutual friends have gotten up to: the letters Varric sends you containing previews of his latest books, your visit to the Hawke estate in Kirkwall, Cassandra’s work with the reformed Seekers and Templars, the Chargers’ newest members, the latest work of the Friends of Red Jenny.

You go on and on, just growing familiar with the rhythm of one another’s voices again. Dorian takes to marking your neck while you try to keep up the conversation and you finally get the long, slow sex you’ve been daydreaming about for weeks, though with several creative tweaks from Dorian on the original design.

Before long you’ve exhausted one another. You fall asleep with him in your arms. It’s more than you could have ever hoped for.


End file.
